Reincarnated: Vive La France
Chapter 288: Pride is a warm thing. Let them keep it in prison, if it comforts them.

Chapter 288: Pride is a warm thing. Let them keep it in prison, if it comforts them.

October 1937.

Kremlin, Moscow

Outside was all fog and snow.

Inside, Lavrentiy Beria waited.

The General Secretary was pacing.

In his left hand, a leather file, in his right, a burning cigarette with ash dangerously long.

"They let him walk into Vienna," Stalin muttered, more to himself than to Beria. "The Austrians threw flowers, and the British wrote speeches."

Beria cleared his throat.

"There is... alarm in Tallinn," he said. "But not yet panic. Our advisors embedded there report discomfort, but no action."

Stalin stopped pacing.

"I’m not interested in their feelings. I want Estonia under us before snow buries the rail lines."

He dropped the file on the table clattering maps, photos, typed transcripts.

Molotov, silent until now, pulled a chair closer.

"There is risk," he said carefully. "The Estonians have pride. And the West may not blink a second time."

Stalin lit another cigarette directly off the one in his mouth.

"Pride is a warm thing. Let them keep it in prison, if it comforts them."

KGB Briefing Room.

Lubyanka, Moscow

Colonel Ivan Nechayev stood before a map of Estonia.

Thin red lines ran across it like veins, each marked with code names "Sickle," "Oath," "Black Bear."

Behind him, two dozen agents sat in metal chairs.

The room was cold.

"Our aim is not full ideological absorption," Nechayev began. "That would take a year, and we have a month. Instead, we inject confusion. Pressure. We make the ground shift beneath them."

A younger officer raised a hand.

"What of the Estonian clergy?"

Nechayev looked up sharply.

"They’ll follow. Or be silenced. Either is effective."

Another agent leaned forward.

"Radio frequencies?"

"Phase two. Jamming begins the day after the first wave of disinformation. We want noise not silence."

Nechayev walked to the chalkboard.

"Phase one begins now. Teams will embed in Tartu, Narva, and Pärnu. Use trade envoys. Use student exchanges. But you are not there to teach. You are there to prepare."

He tapped the chalk.

"Tallinn must fall without firing a shot. Or failing that without us firing the first."

On the other side.

Prime Minister Konstantin Päts rubbed his temples.

A telegram lay open on his desk.

It read.

"Additional Soviet military exercises noted at border. Narva checkpoints report fuel convoys inbound."

He looked up as his defense minister entered.

"We have to consider full mobilization," the minister said. "At least reserves. At least the ports."

Päts sighed.

"Mobilization is an act of war. And we are not ready for war."

The minister dropped into a chair, eyes dark.

"They’re not trying to win our hearts. They’re trying to soften our nerves."

Päts nodded. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Then we must not blink. Not yet."

In the Pskov Region, under canvas tarps, Soviet troops sat in silence as the train rolled through woods.

Red banners hung limp from the railcars.

Lieutenant Korolev walked between the compartments, checking manifests.

"Why the rush?" one young soldier asked him.

Korolev didn’t answer.

He adjusted his collar and moved on.

Up ahead, the lead car carried not rifles, but crates of Estonian-language pamphlets, radios tuned to Soviet frequencies, and portraits of Lenin.

Their weapons would be words first, boots second.

In British Embassy Nigel Hayworth, junior attaché, was scribbling in his notebook.

"October 15th, 1937. More tanks at Narva. A radio signal gone silent in Tartu. Parliament debates neutrality while the walls close in. I’ve written three cables to London. None returned. We have learned nothing."

His superior, Sir Bernard Wilkes, entered holding a glass of sherry.

"Nothing new from Paris," Wilkes said. "They’re busy revising their occupation laws in Catalonia."

Hayworth looked up.

"Do you believe the Soviets will move?"

Wilkes shrugged. "They already are. But they’ll say they were invited. They always are."

Far away a KGB Safe House in Narva.

Three agents gathered around a crude wooden table.

On it lay photographs churches, schools, post offices. Beside them, lists of names.

"You’ll begin with the teachers," said Agent Lysenko. "Then the clergy. Avoid confrontations. Offer them small promises funding, safety, cooperation."

"And if they refuse?" asked the youngest.

Lysenko smiled thinly.

"Then we inform the troops who to avoid saving."

At the same in Estonian Parliament a emergency session was taking place.

The chamber was heated, crowded, loud.

One delegate slammed his fist on the table.

"They’re infiltrating our schools! My daughter came home quoting Lenin!"

Another stood, shouting.

"The League of Nations is worthless! Britain will do nothing! France is silent!"

The Speaker tried to restore order.

Prime Minister Päts finally rose.

"If we shout loud enough," he said, voice steady, "perhaps we will believe ourselves heard."

He looked around.

"But shouting is not strategy. And fear is not policy. If we are to stand, we must do so with open eyes and clenched fists. Or not at all."

Silence followed.

One man began to applaud.

Others joined slowly, unsure.

But none looked convinced.

In Paris, newspapers speculated about a "Baltic Crisis" but led with football scores.

In London, Chamberlain’s cabinet debated whether Estonia counted as a buffer state or a trap.

A Times editorial called for "measured calm."

No one used the word "intervention."

KGB Headquarters in Pärnu, Agent Fedorov handed a classified photo to his superior.

"Printing press in Tartu, gone. Sabotage. We blame faulty wiring."

"And the press?"

"Replaced with one of ours."

"Radio?"

"Intermittent jamming has begun. Enough to stir questions, not answers."

"Good. Keep it blurred."

Kremlin.

October 23, 1937

Stalin looked out the window.

Moscow’s lights blinked through a rising fog.

Beria stood at attention.

"Operation shaping up. Local resistance minimal. No confirmed foreign intelligence presence. Shall we set the date?"

Stalin didn’t speak for a moment. Then he whispered.

"No. Not yet. Let them think. Let them tremble."

He turned.

"Fear softens the ground better than tanks. Give it four more days."

Far away in rural Estonia an old man in a chapel basement gathered students around candlelight.

"They are coming," he said.

"Who?" a boy asked.

"The ones who speak of unity but deliver silence. You will see them smile. You will hear them preach. But you will never hear them ask."

He looked around.

"If we forget what we are before they arrive, they will never let us remember again."

The final preparations rolled into motion quietly just as Stalin demanded.

Maps were redrawn, names marked for replacement, cables relayed orders in coded bursts.

In Lubyanka, a signal went out.

"Phase Two approved. Prepare for transition. Integration begins November 1."